


Hold My Hand

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Paris - Freeform, Romantic Fluff, Sad Ending, love convessions, run away together, the author does not know Paris that well and apologizes right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Hannah Grose does take that trip to Paris with Owen, and their lovely adventure abroad.
Relationships: Hannah Grose/Owen Sharma
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Hannah had, of course, never been on a plane before. Even for her honeymoon, really, she only took a weekend away so as not to be too far from the manor, should the family come back for a surprise visit. She was always drawn back from any obligation or event or holiday, even. There was no escaping her duties.

No, Sam had taken her up to Cardiff, which they had travelled to by train, and spent their first night married making love on an old dusty mattress above a nice and unassuming octogenarian’s parlor. They had had lemon scones and tea in the morning, a radio playing from the kitchen, a cat leaping up on a windowsill and disappearing into the countryside. The tea had been lovely, actually. She remembered it more on her tongue than she ever did her ex-husband.

“You alright, love?”

Owen’s hand rests gently atop hers, warm and grounding on the armrest that hardly divides them, and she finds herself pulled so easily out of the dusty memories again.

“Oh, yes. Quite right,” she answers. “It’s louder than I was expecting.”

“Has to be, hasn’t it? Big engines. Look, you can see them out the window here.”

Owen leans back so she can peek out the tiny window, but she just closes her eyes and turns her face away, as though to shield herself from the reality of the tarmac and the machine they are in. She refused to sit next to the window for the same reason. That, and the fear of being sucked out suddenly. Violent crash. Lightning. Something awful to ruin this adventure.

She turns her head, and feels his hand migrate up to the back of her skull, cradling it so softly. So softly.

“I’ll just close this, then. Win _down’t_ need it anyhow.”

As Owen slides a flimsy partition down over the window, Hannah groans at his terrible joke and leans in to rest her head against his shoulder. The now familiar scent of him, like candied orange-peels and warm charcoal, comes up from the wool of his jumper.

“No grumbling?”

“Not yet. You’ll change my mind shortly, I’m sure.”

“Good,” he answers firmly. His mouth, covered by that ridiculous moustache, twitches into an unmistakable smile. “I thought for a second you’d let it slide and, honestly, Hannah? I’d assume you were a fake who’d wormed her way into this wonderful woman and, I’ll be honest, I don’t mind chaperoning the wrong date, but I’d prefer—”

Hannah Grose kisses him then. She’s not even sure she planned it, and he certainly hadn’t by the freeze of his body, the way his lips take a moment to come together. Moustache or not, she can feel her stomach flip as the plane takes off, the squeeze of his hand against hers, and the chef’s lips against her own. It may very well be the bravest thing she’s done all day and it’s not even past 9 am.

-

“D’you wanna look at the clouds?”

Owen doesn’t shake Hannah awake, not that he would need to. The plane is vibrating but not entirely uncomfortable and Hannah let herself drift there a bit, held down only by that hand of this sweet young man on her own. So, she merely breathes in and sits up, blinking half-sleep from her eyes.

“The clouds?”

As she leans closer to him and, by extension, the window itself, the plane jumps and startles them. A few cry out, despite the stream of sunlight coming in from all those tiny ports around them and the steadiness of the flight staff. Hannah simply grips Owen’s hand. She might have tucked her face against him, in another life, but she finds herself staring out the window this time. At the greatness out there, the endlessness of it. Her cry is much softer, it turns out. A hopeful little gasp. She is no longer afraid of falling, even if Owen holds her hand between his own, sandwiched in comfort and a benign lie of safety, reassurance.

“What do you think?”

Many things, as humans do. Hannah smiles, trying to align her astonishment at the heavens themselves. She used to be quite religious, even if it fell out of her life bit by bit. She held onto the pieces she could, of course. The reassurance of ceremony, of belief, wherever they could come into her life. And it’s not exactly religious, what she feels about seeing the clouds like this, but its neighbors that thought. That desire.

“It’s bright,” she says uselessly and laughs, wishing she had picked something more poetic. Owen laughs too.

“I love it,” Owen says simply and turns his face towards the partition again. “I don’t know. It’s…freeing. Seeing it.” He takes a deep breath, no doubt demonstrating something. “It feels like I can breathe. Which, I know I can.”

He laughs. So does Hannah, not at what he said, not at what he thinks, but because the shape of his laughter bubbles inside her and she enjoys it.

“They are lovely,” she admits. It seems he needed to hear it and, once he does, relaxes under her hand. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, despite the mild turbulence, for the rest of the flight.


	2. Chapter 2

And, as the clouds from up high are a rare breath of fresh air, Hannah finds herself missing that sense of _breathing_. It could just be all the people, the noise, the tall buildings that stretch up and up, piling over each other. Owen does not necessarily sense her trepidation, but he hooks his arm in amongst hers and pulls her close once they are out of the airport, avoiding someone cycling past with nary a backwards glance at anyone they might have clipped. One has to wonder how they find the room, let alone the determination. The gall to get through the city like that. But, lo and behold, they do.

It is not the first time Hannah has been in a large city, but it’s been long enough. So, yes, she forgets. She forgets how to breathe. Even just a moment. Her head spins, trying to drink it all in, a glutton for the memories without the capacity to digest and hold it all. She is, after all, just one woman, aging away. Some days feeling like she may wither and turn to smoke. How can she even cope?

“We’re right down here, love,” Owen says over the din, almost directly in her ear. She starts again, feels herself collected at the points he’s touching her arm and the small of her back, and grips her bag tighter at the excitement that is threatening to undo her. “We’ll catch a cab and head to the hotel? Are you hungry?”

She isn’t. The flight had tossed her stomach about and she’s still stuck on drinking in the city itself. It’s all so dizzying. But she’s come along with a marvelous chef, and she can’t say “no” to him, can she? That’s not right. She’s said “no” to him plenty of times. Even in this, she’s said “no” before. And now she wants, she _wants_ to say “yes! Yes, let’s!” So, with a tight smile, she manages a nod and a short, breathy laugh as they’re swept up in the current.

To hear Owen speak to the cab driver, to the clerk where they’ve stopped, and to a neighbor with a little French dog – all dogs here must be French, right? – with an ease and comfort in the language does delight her. She studied it a bit as a little girl, but it was never important in her adult life and she didn’t keep up with it. She wishes she had, of course, if only to say something sharp and witty instead of feeling a bit like a cloud herself. It’s not even that much of a time difference, but she feels the weight of it all on her head and when they get to their door that should guard them for the next three weeks, all she wants is to get inside and lay down.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she says, softening herself in the same way she has all her life, to her husband, to the family she has served. Perhaps not enough to Rebecca…. Not enough to….

“Don’t be!” Owen answers and stands as tall and exciting as ever, his smile a beam of light. “That’s the whole point of this, right? We don’t _have_ to be sorry. D’you want a lie down? I could fix us some lunch, how’s that?”

“Fix…in _what_?” she asks before they’re inside and finishes her question off with a gasp. “Owen. How in the world did you afford this?”

“It’s cheaper than you think,” Owen says, perhaps a lie, perhaps not. “And it’s about a floor down from where I stayed when I was studying here.”

The room branches out from the door, a window cut into the wall for a tiny sliver of a balcony. One could imagine plants, an herb garden, growing in stubborn little wooden boxes there and leaning against the wrought-iron railing to have themselves a cigarette while they overlook the traffic below. She can still hear it, through the glass, and knows that it will take some time to adjust to the constant noise, but it doesn’t deter her in the slightest.

And what should have been simply a bed, perhaps even two if they were being sensible, scooped out a secret little kitchen replete with stovetop, sink, and counter space. There is a vase with a single calla lily draped inside on an elegant stem and she has to wonder if he called ahead to make that arrangement for them.

There is a water closet tucked away to the side, next to the door that leads into what must be a bedroom. They will have to circumvent two chairs, a battered loveseat, and a rug with a table set between them to get there, which is not difficult, even holding her bags. Yes, compared to a lavish home in the country, it is all so tiny. It is cramped. It could very well have fit in the church on the grounds, the very one she visited so frequently to light her candles, though a much greater comfort with the wood floors, the plaster walls. The light through the curtains.

But it is all so much more than she anticipated that it _feels_ sprawling and luxurious.

“I thought you were getting a hotel,” she says, unable to keep the smile off her lips.

“Well,” Owen says as he sets down a bag by the door, folding keys into his pocket. He decides better and takes them out, handing over one to the room for Hannah to keep. When she takes it, their fingers touch, and she folds her own over his to hold onto a little longer. Her anchor. “I knew the place, for a start. And Minou still works here, so it’s practically a favor. Plus, however was I supposed to woo you with my cooking if we were stuck in a hotel, hmm?”

“Oh,” she answers, her eyebrows climbing as she laughs, not quite at his expense, but the tone was there. “So that was your plan? Dare I say ‘scandalous,’ Mr. Sharma.”

“I think you can say more than that, Ms. Grose,” he says and finally takes his hand away only to circle them around her, like they might start to sway to the irregular tune of the city outside. Their heartbeats would make a better drum anyhow.

It is the same coy smile she wore the first time she saw him flirting with her. The first time she recognized his intent, as it were. Pleased, but not overly so, happy, but reserved enough to pull back and save them both the embarrassment. Dare she say, a proper English Woman’s refusal. Age always played a part, she is certain of that. She is certain…. She….


	3. Chapter 3

“Come on. They’re all in their office buildings or having their French affairs. Very. Popular,” Owen says in a way that speaks of familiarity, though with him, it’s never quite certain if it’s a joke or not and she never finds herself taking offense.

“Now, hold up,” Hannah answers, a hand to her head like a damsel distressed in a very fine portrait, though they both know she is far from it. “Careful! I haven’t worn these out in _ages_ , you know.”

They both spare a glance down at her shoes. What could and should be such sensible shoes, sturdy boots with flat heels and a comfortable padding for her arches, are now something with a bit of a heel. They can even see her toes peeking out under the strap. They are not delicate. They are not completely impractical. But they are a kitten heel all the same and the slight peek of her toes certainly is a scandal, even if it’s just between them. Like seeing her without her blouse. Or seeing him clean shaven. Simply impossible and a wild fantasy.

“Well pick up, Hannah,” Owen teases, his hand around her waist again. He’s always there, a sturdy pillar to brace against, to help save her from plunging gracelessly to the cobblestone street.

“Just to see some tower?” Hannah asks and smirks over her shoulder, like she is not quite able to laugh directly into his face, like her smile needs to be spared and rationed. She has a theory that Owen is trying to tempt her into smiling more and more and now that it’s become a game of who can egg on who, she fights it even harder. Because it is a bit of harmless fun to rile him up. His lips taste sweeter of victory when they land on hers. “Owen, you must know I’ve seen plenty of towers in my life and even one so popular as Eiffel’s doesn’t mean we need to risk our necks running.”

“Hardly,” Owen says and snorts. It’s perfectly undignified. She loves it. “It might be alright for the tourists, Hannah, dear, but even Eiffel himself hated it.”

“Did he now?” she asks, certain he’s joking.

“He did. He did, he always said how he liked to dine up in the tower because it was the only place in all of Paris where he couldn’t see it.”

“How dreadful.”

“That would be the catacombs, my dear,” he says and quickly looks up and down the street before dragging her excitedly to the other side. “And this! Is an arch!”

They go together, hand in hand, across the street until they finally turn down the street and spot the Arc de Triomphe. It’s still a good deal off, standing alone in a circle, a roundabout tracing the perimeter. Hannah wants to make some joke about seeing plenty of arches, too, but the monument does stand quite regal, rising up and towering over its neighbors – one would think one would spot it sooner, but perhaps one was distracted along the way, too busy laughing at her counterpart. She stills, a hand to her chest to catch her breath, and sets her cheek on Owen’s shoulder.

They have no camera with them. They certainly don’t feel like crossing more streets in order to step under the arch, as there’s already a growing number of people, other tourists no doubt with similar ideas. And they’re fine to stand on the edge and look and wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” she remarks. Seems the most sensible thing to say. Not quite enough, really, but appropriate.

“It is,” Owen says slowly. The very nature of his voice suggests he’s not looking at the monument itself, a wonder in its own right. She’ll never get used to him looking at her as a wonder. Not in all her life.

But it does feel good.

“This isn’t what you wanted to show me, was it?” she finally asks, sensing him wanting to move along, straining to keep himself in one place and she has to laugh at seeing the guilty confession on his face.

“It’s just…oh I’m sure you’ll love it, but there’s this restaurant on this side of the city, I’d absolutely love to take you.”

She can’t say she’s surprised, and she can’t even say she’s upset to leave their little spot looking up at the arc. It’s pretty and all, but the world of food is where Owen blossoms and she would very much like to help grown the garden of his talents in any way she can. And if he’s excited about it?

“Lead the way,” she advises and is delighted by the snap through his whole body, like he planned to jump and shout in triumph. Perhaps because he neglected to share a time crunch on their arrival, but she forgives him once they’re there.

The place is decadent, steeped in Art Nouveau, and the light strains through the stained glass in a way that makes it feel like they are stepping into a dream. Owen steps forward to talk to a young man with sharp black hair. They clap each other on the back after a moment’s hesitation, talking animatedly as Hannah takes in all the details of La Fermette Marbeuf. Owen’s friend taps his wrist, no doubt saying something crass, as Owen ducks his head and answers back, until the two of them are laughing again.

Hannah watches them from the corner of her eye, smiling when she hears that laughter, and a few compliments slipped her way. Perhaps they are compliments. Owen’s friend jabs him and asks, << _Comment as-tu trouvé une si belle femme? Qui avez-vous payé? >> _and she doesn’t understand most of it, but she knows “belle” and “femme” and therefore assumes it could be something about her. Owen answers with his hand on his chest, looking skyward, with his head held high. He could be saying the most filthy thing and she would not truly know, but his face is open and serene and she can feel the truth of his sincerity, even as his friend teases him.

Not too long later, they are sitting at a tiny table towards the back. The restaurant is nearly empty, but certainly not for lack of customers, simply that they are switching over from lunch to dinner and it is only by way of his connection that they get a seat. The same young man with the sharp black hair comes to ask after their drink orders. He doesn’t speak a word of English and Hannah does not expect him to, is fine to watch Owen comfortably banter back and forth with him. She’s brought into the conversation with a gesture, a look, and smiles back in answer as it seems appropriate. And lets her mind wander as her eyes wander, drinking in the exquisite details of this place. The peacock feathers, the ornate trim. The statue. The….

“D’you know what I think we need?” Owen’s voice cuts into her thoughts and drags her back soon enough.

They are alone again. The quiet is insulated with the sound of traffic and people in the kitchen itself, as well as a song playing from a record that floats like fog along the floor.

Hannah blinks and sits up, giving him her full attention. There’s a glass of wine in front of her, her fingers hovering over the stem, and she finally grips it. The glass is cool, smooth. Firm. Real.

“What do we need?” she asks and crosses one of her legs under the table and leans on an elbow so she can fidget with one of her earrings, a clip of gold cut into the shape of a loose triangle, almost like wings. It’s heavy and warm. Smooth. Firm. Real.

Owen lifts his glass.

“A toast.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. We need a toast, you and I. This is a special occasion. We’re in one of my most favourite places. You’re going to have some divine food and I’m going to weep over some potatoes.”

“You are?” Her lips curl into a brighter smile as Owen soldiers on.

“I am. Just you wait and see.” He clears his throat and brings his glass closer to hers. “So, yeah. I think we need a toast, then. You know?”

“To what?” she asks, her voice low, waiting to hear just the right thing. Her finger ghosts playfully against the back of his hand as she waits, letting their glasses rest. Without touching. Without _touching_.

“To us,” he answers, almost a question, and leans himself in closer so their foreheads are near. Without touching.

“To us,” she answers.

_Clink_.


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn’t quite cry over potatoes, though she wouldn’t blame him. Roasted, buttery, they smell so heavenly, but when he offers her a bite, she sits back and takes another sip of water instead.

“Would you like to try mine?”

“Are you sure?” Owen asks, and reaches across to stab a bite off her plate before the sentence is even done. “You’ve hardly touched it.”

“Oh, too rich for me,” she says, and nudges the plate closer to him. Everything has been shifted. Has been moved. It’s not entirely certain if she’s had a single bite of it, really, but enough us moved to say she’s tried it. Probably. “I don’t think my stomach’s quite settled from the flight.”

He pouts in sympathy before he finally samples her dish. His eyebrows come together in concentration and he hums all the way down the length of the tines of his fork, flicking it in the air twice by his cheek, a sign that he enjoys it quite a lot.

“I’ve done you a disservice,” he says after he’s finished savouring his bite. “Mm. Didn’t cook enough like this for you.”

“You were a marvelous cook,” she says, quick to defend someone who she knows doesn’t need it. “You were. You are! You and your mad flavours. But too much cream, you know.”

“Well,” he says as he sits back, but the way his shoulders sway, the way his chin lifts, he’s chuffed from the compliment. “I had to fatten you all up. Could’ve baked you all in rough puff with some oyster mushrooms. Those kids were all skin and bones, so, had to start somewhere.”

“Can’t imagine, really, with everything they’ve been through.”

Their smiles soften, turn inwards, and she has her hand resting close to his on the table before he shifts closer, the edge of his pinky brushing hers, and then loops them together. A proper chain. It feels safe, then, holding him like that. Not too affectionate, but safe.

“Well, we’ll just see them next summer,” Owen declares, and it breaks apart the illusion of quiet, but only so he can hold her hand properly, now. A heavier, more overt sign, but washed away by the lighthearted tone of his voice. “I heard Henry should be bringing them back for a visit, but I suspect they’ll get lost in America.”

There is a chill then, so slight, and she starts to pull her hand away from him.

“And wherever Dani and Jaime ran off too,” he continues, laughing towards his glass. “Finally, right? I thought Jamie was just going to bury herself in her garden.”

“She worked very hard on it.”

“So did you,” he says more serious that she was anticipating. The chill crawls higher, like water rushing into her lungs, and she sits up, rolling her head from one side to the other, trying to remove the cobwebs she can feel draped on her skull. Phantoms, of course. It had been such a hard night…such a hard....

“Hannah,” he whispers. His chair scoots on the floor and their knees bump. Just a tiny jolt that reminds her how close they are, how solid he really is, even as he folds both his hands around hers. “I’m sorry. I overstepped. I—”

“It’s alright,” she answers with that practiced grin, still slightly shaking her head, still putting her best face forward. “It is. You didn’t mean anything.”

“No, but I upset you.”

“You didn’t.” She bites the words until they sound cheerier. “You didn’t. Just….”

“It’s alright,” he says even softer, the words floating in a cool and safe space between them. “We are alright. Look at me?”

Of course she wants to. Of course she _doesn’t_ want to, for fear he’ll see too much. See her failings, see her frown, see her desperate attempt to cling to the bright and the happy and know it’s much murkier under the surface. See her doubt, see her clawing rage at abandonment, see her broken heart so newly put back together that if someone where to pour water into it, it would still leak along the cracks. See all the cracks. The cracks.

But his hand is on her cheek and she closes her eyes, if just a moment, before he guides her to look at him.

“Hannah,” he says. She does like her name in his mouth. Hearing it, she swallows and takes a steady breath. “We don’t have to say anything. I won’t bring up Bly even _once_ , if you don’t want me to.”

“Oh,” she answers, her best attempt at a strong and steady voice that only breaks at the end, just a little shaky. She reaches out to touch him in the dark when he startles her by brushing his thumb across her cheek, and draws it back. His skin is damp from a tear. “I don’t mind. I really don’t,” she says. A lie, but only to herself. “It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is,” she assures him. “I suppose I just miss them all very much.”

“They miss you too,” he says, hunched over so he has to look up at her. It’s like he’s a crane, the way he tilts his head, and she doesn’t know why she finds it silly enough to break out into a choked laugh. “But I suppose they’ll just keep on missing you, hmm? I’ve gone and absconded you.”

“How devious.”

“I’m a villain,” he says with a sigh. A shrug. A smile. “Devilish intents, me.”

“Now, hush.”

He pushes up then, like rising from the tide, from the smoke, from the chair before her, and she anticipates the move sooner than she realizes, cupping his face gently in her hands, and accepts a kiss for what it is. A lifeline. An apology. A soothing gesture. A savory treat.


	5. Chapter 5

The odd twist of her stomach doesn’t want to go away. Hannah finds no use in complaining, though that night, in their little temporary flat, she takes tea instead of the chicken cutlet he’s prepared, after their stop at the shops on the trip home. She apologizes again. The vegetables look divine, bright and steaming hot, and the chicken is golden, with a drizzle of a lemon sauce that she is sure is seasoned to perfection. Owen, to his credit, sets the plates aside, his towel over his shoulder, and touches her forehead after he asks her permission to do so.

“You don’t feel feverish,” he says, though his eyes say something else, and he dabs the back of his hand against her cheek as well. “Does the tea help?”

“By leagues,” she says, setting the plain little mug down so she can circle her fingers around his wrists. “It was a busy day. And I just think I’m still not quite settled in here yet.”

Owen’s mouth forms a soft frown.

“I could make you some bone broth?” he offers. “It’s better than chicken soup, I promise.”

“Could you?” she asks, and they put on their shoes, they hold each other’s hands, and they disappear to the market to get some supplies. The evening air is smoky, loud, and beautiful. Other couples, other people flit in and out around them, and she would sink in the unfamiliar, lost in the undertow without anyone to speak to, if Owen didn’t have her hand. She doesn’t tell him this. How it gnaws at her, this unanswerable fear that, at a moment’s notice, she’ll be gone. She’ll be blinked out.

It’s easier to pretend otherwise.

It’s better to pretend.

There is a proper market that Owen raves about as they wander to the little shop at the corner, with it’s black framed windows and its soft amber lights. Shelves of dried goods, a few boxes of knickknacks, and wine and cigarettes aplenty. There’s even a little patio with two exclusive tables, both occupied with people who lounge, watching the crowds, and sharing glasses of merlot amongst the four of them.

It’s cramped inside, but Hannah still holds Owen’s arm and follows him down the two aisles to get what he needs. She doesn’t feel faint, but the fact that she can barely stomach anything, something that didn’t bother her once at Bly, suddenly consumes her with that same whisper of dread that she wonders if she is actually light-headed. If she should be feverish.

She must look distracted, because Owen squeezes her hand on his own, so gently, and says her name twice to get her attention. One more, his hand is on her cheek, and that little soft frown folds his moustache. If she kissed him again, just now, would she at least get a hint of the lemon chicken? Could she pretend she sampled it?

“Sorry about that,” she says and laughs, taking his hand off her forehead again. “Wandered off there a bit.”

“You okay?” he asks, dropping his voice to be shared between them. It is such a weighted question. It is so impossible to say, really.

“I am. I am, I am,” she says flippantly at last, and waves his concerns from the air. She even laughs. “I am. Promise. What have you got?”

“Oh, um. Everything I need, I think. Won’t be my finest, but you can’t argue with cheap and easy. Not right now, I think….”

“I’m fine,” she says with a little more seriousness, even as she smiles brighter. “I think it’ll be perfect.”

“Yeah?” He tucks his chin down and arches his back so he’s hunched awkwardly at eyelevel, his own flicking back and forth across her face. “Alright,” he says and snaps himself back up to full height. “If the lady insists, then she insists.”

“She does.”

“So she does,” he says with a cheerful bob of his head and goes to pay for their items. The shop keep must have some thoughts, as the two share a lively little banter of an argument, and Owen finally purchases a bottle of wine to go with it. They already had two back at the flat, but he holds up his latest prize with a slightly weary smile. “Yay.”

“What was that about?” she asks, looping his arm as they head back.

“If I say ‘ducks,’ would you believe me?”

“Ducks?”

“He was quackers,” Owen agrees.

“…What?”

“Mmmhmm.”

He insists on carrying their items.

He insists on finishing her broth, just after he opens the bottle of wine, which has a little goose engraved on the label – “Is this what you meant about ducks?” she asks and he stares at her like she’s grown three heads, looks at the label, and then laughs so hard he almost falls over. The broth is easy to sip, and she finishes a bowl at the table while Owen cleans, something else he insisted upon, despite every protest she gave on the matter. She half expected him to take his towel and flail it at her to get her out of the tiny kitchen, if she dared to even pick up a sponge or a spoon with intent to clean them.

“You’re going to spoil me,” she announces, unbuckling her shoes so she can flex her toes and curl up on the sofa in comfort.

“Always the plan, love,” he says, his head down beneath the counter to rummage in the cupboards a bit, popping up with two glasses like they were winning lottery tickets. “D’you want a glass?”

Her instinct is to say “no,” but she stops herself and finds she’s reaching for him.

“I think I would,” she says, pulling her hand back to her chest.

“Just a glass,” he says conspiratorially, scrunching his nose, and brings them over like he’s walking on hot coals. The floorboards groan and squeal in such protest at his little dance. She takes a glass from him and scoots herself closer to the armrest. There’s only a moment of awkwardness, where Owen thought it more prudent to sit in the armchair, the loveseat far too close for two friends-who-kiss-and-whom-he-loves to sit, but the invitation is easy and it’s honest and he slowly sinks into the cushion beside her with an exaggerated sigh, like he’s put himself in a nice hot bath.

“So,” Hannah says, and rests her cheek on her hand, tucked in so she can face him with her knees up near her chest.

“So,” he says and peeks at her from the corner of his eye, trying very hard not to be obvious and covering his awkwardness up with a sip.

“So,” she repeats and reaches out to touch his forearm before he can repeat it back to her. “Owen. Today was lovely.”

“Was it?”

“You know it was,” she says and pushes her fingers playfully into his arm before she retreats again. She has to hold her hand in a fist in her lap afterwards. After losing that wonderful pressure on them. “I’m not even sure how you can outdo yourself. Not unless we really did visit the Eiffel tower.”

“Much further down the list.” He takes another drink, longer, and winces as he swallows down the healthy gulp, his teeth briefly on display through a hiss and then he settles back again. “Market tomorrow, I think. And I would love for you to meet some of my old colleagues. I had someone I worked with who opened his own restaurant. Maybe we can stop by? I’d love to pilfer his ideas for my own.”

“Of course.”

“And there are some very nice museums. I wasn’t…entirely sure if you wanted to see them. But I know where they are!”

“No, that sounds wonderful.”

She slides one of her feet down the loveseat and brushes it against his leg. It wasn’t exactly what she meant to do; her foot had been cramping and the movement is automatic, coupled by the closeness. But at that brush, she can see some colour rise in his cheeks. There’s a giddiness, tinged with apprehension and regret. She feels so strange to be the one seducing, and isn’t quite sure if she’s even doing it right. Or if it’s wanted. Or if—

“D’you know, I didn’t even think you’d come,” Owen says, pulling her straight up from her thoughts. “To Paris. With me, I mean. I hope that if you ever wanted to go, you would go, but with me most of all.” He chuckles towards his shoulder and it helps him face her, even if he is doing a terrible job of looking her in the eye. “But you did. You came with me. You are here, with me, now. And, Hannah, love, I’m constantly dead certain you’re going to figure out I was a mistake. I’m good company to have. Scratch that, I’m _great_ company to have. I’m a blast.” His smile is forced, but there’s such a warmth to his words. “But I would go home at night and maybe that made it easier, didn’t it? Little breaks with…from me. Easier….”

Hannah opens her mouth to protest. Of course she’s going to protest! But Owen raises a hand, decides better, and presses his hand to hers until their fingers are interlocked.

“But we did it anyways. We did it. We’re _here_. And there is no one else I would ever dare dream to spend this time with.

“You are an incredible woman. I know you know that, and if you don’t, someone’s been doing a great disservice to you.” His smile feels like it’s already on her own lips. His hands feel like they’ve already climbed up to her jaw. Her heart feels like it’s already fluttering too fast. “You are. Incredible. And smart. And – and. And lovely. You’re so lovely.” He says it almost like a relief, like he’d locked up that particular sentiment too long and it sprawled out of him in comfort. “Even when you’re not feeling well, you’re just beautiful. And more than that, too. Don’t think I’m only here for the looks. I mean, I am, but a gentleman never says it’s just that, does he?”

“Stop it,” she says and squeezes his arm in mock protest.

“Well. It’s true. Brains and beauty? Mm, nope. Throw it all out. Just a looker, please.”

“I’ll throw you out.”

“I know you would,” he says softer and presses their foreheads together. He closes his eyes and there’s a gentle settling of his frame, of his mind. Coming towards something important. “I’m not sure what we are, Hannah. I’m not sure, but I have hopes on what we can be. And I won’t press for an answer or anything. But.”

He scoots himself closer so that their legs are so clearly touching. Practically in each other’s laps. She can wrap her arms easily around his neck, if she chose, and the thrill of their bodies aligning. She feels a confession coming and prepares herself.

“I have to be honest,” he says and sits back, scrubbing the back of his neck in a nervous tick. Her mouth twitches and her heart races and she feels like she could scatter all across this flat, disappear into the night sky, as he twists his mouth and finally looks at her. “The bed roll is awful and I am far too long to sleep on this loveseat.”

“What?”

She blinks back and feels her face heat up out of embarrassment from her anticipation.

“It’s terrible. I said I was okay with it the first night. I’m not going to pressure you or anything,” he says and lifts his hands. “Swear on it. But—”

“Owen Sharma,” she says seriously, pulling her hands back to her chest in faux shock. “Are you asking to join me in bed?”

“There’s _plenty_ of room,” he says. His moustache twitches. It’s the happiest little dance of coy elation. “We can wrap up in separate blankets. I’ll wear three sweaters.”

“Three?”

“It’s just for my back, you see.” He groans cartoonishly, rubbing his spine at the same time. “My back, dear Hannah. My poor back. Oh, whoa is me!”

“You’re ridiculous!” If she had a pillow, she’d smack him with it. She’d feel just like a schoolgirl having a play fight. She feels like it now, anyways, with her first crush announcing their intentions after school. “Your back indeed.”

“Cross my heart. Hope to—”

Another kiss. Oh, how many can they even share? Enough? Near enough? Never enough?

“Don’t you say another word,” she tells him seriously, taking away his promise. That’s not for him. He should live well into his old age, gray and worn, beautiful in his weathered ways, in his mirth, in his joy. “Come with me.”

It’s what he had said to her. He only obliges, but of course.


	6. Chapter 6

Hannah wakes first, wrapped in the wonderfully firm arms of Owen. If she dreamed of this moment a thousand times before, it never once lived up to the real thing. He is sweet, the way he tucks his chin down, snoring softly into the pillow scrunched under his head. His fingers are loosely locked, easy to break apart as she slides out of the buttery warmth of their cocoon. They are lucky for the sun and the unseasonable warmth of mid-autumn, but she still crosses her arms and rubs her shoulders, prickling with a slight chill. There’s a loose shirt hung over a wooden chair in the corner, which she slips into and smells the cotton deeply. More of his scent. He can complain about her stealing clothes when he gets up.

Hannah wakes first, because she always wakes first. She rises early, ready to set about her tasks for the day. And while at the manor, she would have put on the kettle and had tea ready for when Owen and Jamie arrived, as long as it wasn’t Jamie’s early day. Nothing against her, but pulling weeds before the sun is up does sound a bit like torture.

The wooden floorboards are cool on the bottoms of her feet and she hugs her arms as she floats into the kitchen. Now, she may not be a properly trained chef, but poaching some eggs and making some toast doesn’t seem like a Herculean task. Her conviction doubles when she sees the small container of broth yet in the refrigerator, which fights to open for her on the first try. He’s done so much. Too much, in fact, and she cannot give him back everything he deserves. But steps are made, all the same.

It is perhaps the smoke that wakes him. Or perhaps the crackle of the eggs in the pan. Or perhaps the cold sheets beside him. Owen stumbles out of the bedroom, rubbing his face, and bats at the air.

“What are you doing?”

“Apparently burning the place down!” Hannah announces as she waves a rag over a poor innocent skillet that did not deserve such abuse.

“Noble effort,” he answers, stepping gingerly towards the window and cracking it open. The floorboards creak noisily under his steps. No doubt he hasn’t figured out the places yet that don’t make them sing. “What did you make?”

“Charcoal,” she admits miserably and tips the skillet towards him to show off her efforts. Owen scoots himself beside her. He’s also put on a shirt for the morning, the waistband to his flannel bottoms rolled up on his hips and, when he stretches, there’s a tantalizing stripe of his stomach.

Neither of them slept naked last night. Hannah had on a thin chamois beneath the shirt she pilfered and her own bottoms are cut into high-waisted shorts. She envies his flannels now, in the morning. Feels too exposed without the blanket or his body tangled around her, nuzzling into the back of her head, a dull ache clawing to the surface that he tried to kiss away. His efforts were valiant, at least. His efforts meant everything.

Her efforts meant a ruined breakfast, apparently.

“I don’t think I used enough butter,” she admitted, covering her mouth with her fingertips to keep her mirth locked away.

“Or any, it seems,” he says, tentatively scraping the pan.

“I swear the tea is loads better.”

She turns into him and he accepts her, bad breakfast and all, wrapping her up.

“I think I can fix this.”

“Yes, but I was supposed to make you breakfast.”

“Who says?” he asks, smiling against her scalp.

“No one. Me. You made dinner and you…I thought it would be nice.”

“It’s wonderful. It’s perfect. I’m not eating it, though.”

They laugh together and sway together, dancing in the morning as the smoke escapes out the window, disappearing in the traffic, in the city, in the sky.

At the very least the toast is fine. They can butter two slices up, a spread of jam, and butt them together at the corner crusts like they’re clinking glasses again. _To us_ , they think, and Hannah watches intently as Owen takes a bite, making certain she didn’t ruin it entirely.

“Oh.” He hums and licks his lips, then lifts his hand where a little stripe of jam dripped onto his finger. He’s about to clean it off when Hannah holds his wrist and, on a dare only she knows about, decides to do it for him. The jam is sugary, too much so, but the salt of his skin is divine, and the lovely look on his face more so. It’s better off his finger than off her toast anyhow.

“Should I take a bath before we go do _whatever_ it was you wanted to do today?” she asks innocently, letting go of his hand and turning around, sounding the same as she ever does. It’s the turning around that’s important. Then he can’t see her eyes bulge towards the countertop, the slight panic that she had overstepped. Quite unlady-like, what she’s done. She’s never even kissed Sam’s fingertips, when they were married, let alone lingered on his finger in her mouth. But the panic is wiped away as Owen holds onto her hips and tugs her close, hugging her up to him until she laughs. Until they both do.


	7. Chapter 7

The wind changes and the days slip into each other with a casual grace. They must. There’s…moments. That seem so inconsequential. Hannah doesn’t remember them. She remembers the important things. She remembers Owen through them all, so that must be….

It should not be this easy to find this comfort. Nothing has ever been this easy, but Owen already fits around her better than silk and Hannah already sits so snuggly in his heart. He reminds her, daily, to live. To drink wine with him, to dance with him. Even yesterday she took a bite of food and it was strange how it felt like it had been so long. So _long_ since really enjoying something. It all feels too good to be real. Surely, he must see some flaw, some imperfection. She can see his. He is obnoxious about his flossing and leaves the string dangling on the basin of the sink, though he’ll clean it up the second pass through. He snores, though it’s soft and only occasionally. He…he has bad jokes! Though she loves them. She loves them. She loves all of them.

Their trip to the market takes so long and she is finally required to carry some of the bags, which thrills her for some unspoken, unknowing reason. Huge berries, the darkest leafy greens, the freshest fish. They are poked over, combed over, haggled over. Hannah brightens after each discovery and leans in close as Owen explains how to tell which melon is ripe, or why this bread is so good, or why that cheese will crumble and melt in her mouth. The crinkle of brown parchment wraps around filets. The twine snapping tight around whole plucked pheasants. The spices, some of which cost a veritable fortune and she cannot wrap her mind over needing to pay so much for such a small bottle.

“Pure magic,” he says to her, shaking the little cloves in their glass jar. “I’ll show you.”

He will. She knows he will. She hopes so badly to taste it.

Their trip to the city winds through the streets until they find the little bistro. A blue exterior with a black and white awning, scalloped edges, choked little hedges that go up to the bottom of the window. _Minou_ painted in gold gilded calligraphy on the glass. Inside, a woman flits behind the counter, and the air is filled with cooking. There’s a small line, mostly tourists, who happily take their food and tuck into tiny tables or in brown paper bags to enjoy somewhere else. When the line dwindles, Owen puts his hands on the counter and drops his voice, his brows furrowed as he says something.

The woman behind the counter, her red hair – dyed – tied back by a bandana, her black shirt rolled up to her elbows, her apron tied tight around her waist, holds up a hand and is starting to bark back at him when she turns around and her face relaxes into an earnest smile.

“Owen! Sonovabitch, you didn’t say today!”

“Surprise,” he says, chuckling at her response. “You’re busy today. Should we come back tomorrow?”

“Fuck tomorrow,” she says without missing a beat and steps out behind the counter, rushing up to hug him, only spotting Hannah after she has her hands around him. “Oh! Pardon. Who is this?” She thwacks Owen on the chest and he flinches appropriately. “Introduce me!”

“Okay, _ow_.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

He continues to rub his chest as he turns and bows slightly, his other hand motioning towards Hannah. Their interactions are not unlike two siblings who have known each other all their lives, though by the time they are sitting together and Hannah is being very grateful for some ginger tea, she is surprised to learn they’ve only known each other five years?

“Six?” Owen asks, looking down at Minou, who happily swats the question away.

“However long,” she says and sinks back into her chair. Whenever someone comes through the door, she tells them to come back in five minutes, and continues to do so through their twenty-minute conversation.

“I can’t _believe_ you have a bistro.”

“You’re impressed?”

“A bistro.”

“No, now be impressed,” she says and kicks him a little under the table. His chair, which he had been tilting back in like he is a teenage boy, threatens to spill over, which makes both Minou and Hannah laugh when he rights himself, all four legs, all too feet on the ground.

“I’m impressed. I’m impressed!” He finally admits, holding his hands up in surrender. “We were going to go visit Marc as well.”

Minou rolls her eyes and flicks her fingers at him.

“Then you must have my lunch first, so you know how badly he copied me,” she insists.

“Oh?”

_< <C'est un serpent. Morceau de serpent de merde. Il a toujours été un serpent et un jour je le cuisinerai vivant.>>_

_< <Servez-lui une belle roulade aux framboises.>>_

_< <Je savais que je pouvais compter sur toi.>>_

After someone knocks on the counter and Minou drags her eyes to a clock on the back wall, she gets up and claps her hands together.

“Lunch,” she says seriously, pointing at them. “On me. Are you vegetarian, Hannah?”

“Oh, I’m alright. I—” When both of them look at her, Hannah laughs at the similar glint in their eye and finally nods. “I’m not. Vegetarian.”

“Good!” Minou claps again and disappears back behind her counter, starting an animated argument with the customer.

Soon enough they are sharing a turkey and brie sandwich with a spicy mustard. Hannah sips her tea as Owen points out little things around the bistro that he likes. Things he would change. He doesn’t seem to realize his critiques, his praises, and says them both in quiet tones, like he’s sharing another secret joke with Hannah. And she smiles.

And then, after a long day out in the city, absorbing pieces of it until the dust of it sits firmly behind her ribs, Hannah pulls Owen with her, past the two little chairs, past the table, past the sofa, all the way to bed with her. There is an unspoken urgency in their touches. Making up for lost time, perhaps, but something more pressing than that. Apologies made when she presses a kiss to his shoulder and asks after a little scar on his chest where a childhood friend stabbed him “a little.” She kisses it now, even though it is long healed. He cradles her head, that pain flaring at the base of her skull, until she tucks in against him and shakes. They’ve barely removed each other’s shirts, but he never rushes her. He rubs her back in slow, soothing circles, and she intends to do more, she does, but the night is cold. It’s warm here. It’s safe. It’s quiet. And she drifts off.


	8. Chapter 8

She drifts.

She drifts….

She blinks and Hannah takes a deep breath, like rousing from a nap, before she cranes her neck up and smiles when the now familiar lips and that moustache of Owen Sharma meets her cheek. The sun feels so good today that she found a sleeveless blouse with a high collar, pinning a pearl-accented brooch at the close of her throat. The dark wine silk billows gently in the breeze as Owen puts himself behind her, hugging her closer.

“I _suppose_ it’s something,” Owen says with a thoughtful hum, the roll of his eyes clear anyways. “At any rate, proof right there you’re in Paris.”

“Nowhere else in the world,” she says and shifts so they can be side by side, so she can put her arm around him. Protect him for a change, even though there is seemingly nothing wrong with the world. A false truth in every sense, but a false truth for everyone, really. “Unless they decide to spring up a miniature somewhere.”

“America. My money is it will be in America.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” she says and pats his chest with a little shake of her head. “But you shouldn’t say.”

“Then who would I be, hmm?”

It is not their grandest adventure. It is not remarkable. It is warm, and it is still, and they lace their fingers together and Hannah stitches that very moment directly to her heart. A locket in her soul, as she discovers she is perfectly in love with him then.

The novelty of the Eiffel Tower chips away and they decide to leave at exactly the same moment, even their breathing in sync. There were plans to visit other places, but Hannah convinces him to head back to their little flat, a gentle nudge and, if need be, she rubs her shoulders and makes an excuse about being cold. He may see right through it, but he’s polite enough to say nothing and happily makes the walk back with her. Her boots tap gently on the pavement all the way back. It was the first time she’s heard them, or perhaps knows she should hear them, and the sound is a comfort the same way Owen is. Solid and real.

“Can I make you something?” Owen asks when he closes the door behind him, twisting their little blue-painted lock into place. He's always making her something. It his way of helping, a service. But they are two service-orientated people and have a hard time asking for themselves. “Tea? I could heat up some of—”

He’s cut off when she presses him back against the door, her arms entwined behind his head, catching her nails in his thick black hair. There is a need. Not quite just sex, though the hunger sharpens the same places in her. It’s love. It’s love and it’s lovely and she needs him to know how complete it is, a perfect pearl; no cracks.

“Hannah.”

“Yes,” she answers, a firm statement, and bites her lip when she spots some lip stain on his mouth, slightly smudged at the corner there, already wiping it away with her thumb. “Again.”

"Ag—what?” Owen asks around a laugh, even as his chin follows after her hand. But as he settles his hands on her hips, it seems to fall into place in his mind and he nods. “Hannah?”

“Do you love me?” she asks, still as solid, unforgiving rock, that sharp pain rising with her anxiety that she has to close her eyes against the feeling, for fear her skull will break apart. “You don’t have to say.” As much as she wishes, she wishes so hard, she shouldn't ask. She aches for it, like—

“Hannah,” he repeats a third time, and she feels his palm up on her neck, his thumb brushing along the line of her jaw. “Yes.”

She swallows his answer like it’s the sweetest wine, and pulls herself to him. Strong hands scoop under her, pick her up as easy as anything, and he holds the back of her head as he carries her to the bedroom. Past the chairs. The two…little…. Past the table. Past the….

There are points now, white hot, like metal fused together. Hannah struggles to keep her hands off him, the chain of them only two points, but the only two that matter then as he carefully opens the pearl brooch at her throat and sets it aside on the little dresser that never seems to overfill with her clothes, though never runs out of options either. He kisses her throat, which bobs when she swallows, and again when he undoes the buttons of her blouse, sliding her free of it. It ghosts to the floor, soft as a whisper. Her brassiere is almost a trial, but she has years of practice, hooking her arms behind her back and opens the little toothy latches for him.

“It’s been a while,” he says with a boyish giggle, an apologetic shrug. His cheeks flush dark and beautiful and that alone makes her focus break, makes room for her own laughter.

“Me too,” she says, the straps now loose on her shoulders. She slides them down and tosses it somewhere near her blouse so that she’s free to cling to him again. “Ages, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, like riding a bike.”

“Nervous, Mr. Sharma?”

“Oh, Hannah,” he says, his voice tickling her skin where he tucks in near her shaved head, planting tokens of his love against her scalp. “With you? Always. And never.”

He has far fewer layers to remove. She knows this. She knows this from last night, when she watched him undress from the bed, where she rubbed her hands with lotion and waited patiently for him to come hold her, like he did the day before, like she wishes he had long before that but never knew that was a desire she held inside herself. Now? Now she stands in front of him, rolling the bottom of his shirt up with him. Now she flattens her palms on his sides, staring up at him, like she is expecting an answer to a question she did not ask and does not have formed completely. Now, she closes her eyes when he unzips her skirt, sets her on the bed, climbs up to join her. The mattress groans under his knee. The bedding rumples under his fist pressed down to keep him supported near her elbow. She crawls back to give him more room and sits up when he won’t put his weight on her.

“I won’t break,” she says as a tease, but the slight furrow of his brows softens her more. “It’s alright. If we’re going too fast, we don’t—”

“No,” he says, a bit too firm at first, the answer rushing out of him for fear this spell will break. “No,” he says slower, quieter, and stays posted on his knees over her, his arm another pillar, his hand hovering over her naked breastbone, migrating higher for her collar, her cheek, her head to guide back down to the pillow. “I…sorry. I just….” His eyes are wandering again, this time not looking for an escape to give her modesty, but to see her. To _see_ her. She fights not to squirm under his scrutiny and finds comfort when she slides her hands into the waistband of his pants. Not to take them away, but to hang on the slight tug of the elastic, to keep touching him. Points of contact. Their chain of two. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I’m not.” Owen’s stomach bounces against her knuckles when he laughs, and he ducks his head. “I’m not. I’m just –”

It is her time to comfort. It is her time to protect, to cherish, and she lets go of his waistband so she can hold his face in both hands, turning him to look at her. His skin is wonderfully heated.

“Hannah,” he says quietly, like his heart is breaking.

“I know,” she answers, and pulls him down to her.

She cannot breathe him in enough. She cannot hear his strangled little moans enough, his thick hands roaming her, mapping her, entering her. She cannot tighten her legs around him enough, rocking with him, tumbling together into a startled release, dusting away his apology with light kisses, and trying again. And again. Until their bones ache. Until her head feels like it’s on fire and she doesn’t even mind that, because he loses his speech, even his terrible puns, but he says her name again. And again. And she can feel his heart thrumming under her hands, or between her legs, or at the back of her head where he holds her, he holds her, he holds her.

The third time Hannah feels herself shake apart, she drops herself atop Owen, like water splashed from a bucket, and catches her breath against his chest. He’s panting harder than she is, and that gives her some sense of pride. Her lip stain is completely removed, painting stretches of Owen. There was even a faint hint of it on his prick, for a moment, and it made her giggle when he had to cover his face and repeat her name into the crook of his arm, dribbling onto her tongue. Better than scones, this time.

But now, her body is heavy and damp with sweat and she aches in pleasing ways. After a time, the air begins to cool in their little bedroom. Hannah shivers, more than once perhaps, because Owen is shifting under her, groaning as he pulls out of her, and apologizes as she curls up in herself, hugging her knees loosely to hold onto the patch of warmth he made.

“Where’re you going?” she asks, the slightest hint of a whine in her voice, the first time she lets it creak into her words.

“I, my dear lady,” Owen says slowly and takes a moment to drop his head back as he sits at the edge of the bed, “am going to draw you a bath. And I’m going to massage you and wrap you up.”

“You spoil me,” she says, something she’s told him many times now this trip.

“I know.” He smiles over his shoulder and pats his own thighs before he stands up, tiptoeing carefully towards the bathroom.

The floor still squeals for him. It always will.

Of course she can hear the pipes clunk and groan, and the rush of water begin to fill their tiny little tub. So strange to think of these things as “theirs,” but she indulges in the thought. She wonders about this holiday coming to a close in another week, and what they might do next. If they purchase it, and Owen stays to open his own restaurant? If Hannah can find work here? She doesn’t know the language, she doesn’t know a family, she doesn’t know what she can offer to the word after her time at Bly Manor, and that worry is as pervasive as ink stains her mind.

She frowns when she can’t hear the water anymore. There are fewer cars outside, and the quiet creeps in. Something of a comfort out in the country now feels alien to her. She gathers up the blanket and runs her fingers down the nape of her neck, holding herself when the world feels like it doesn’t want to hold her anymore. When it feels like she is unmoored, drifting. Drifting….

Hands plunge into the dark to rescue her. She opens her eyes and Owen is holding her, still wrapped in the blankets, and kisses her temple.

“Bath’s ready, love,” he says quietly, then startles when she holds onto him tighter. “It’s alright, Hannah. It’s alright. I’m here.”

“Owen.” She doesn’t know if he likes the sound of his name in her mouth, not outright, but supposes the way he nuzzles her head as he carries her is answer enough.

The bath is already filled with steam and the low orange light from two naked bulbs over the vanity. The wooden floors stop at the door jamb, replaced by black and white tiles. They could use a good scrubbing, but it’s not something either of them have been inspired to try. A candle flickers on the windowsill, reflected back in the half-steam-covered pane.

“Here you are,” he says as he kneels slowly and lowers her alone into the water. The basin is very small. Even she needs to curl her knees up. But he’s put something in the water, a soap that makes it milky and floral. Perhaps lavender? “Warm enough? Too hot?”

“Perfect,” she answers, still holding his arm as she relaxes back. She closes her eyes, discovering they are suddenly so heavy. So very heavy. Like little silver coin weights have been placed on them and they burn less when she closes them. “Perfect,” she repeats.

Owen is so careful when he bathes her. The way he rubs each of her fingers, lingering a little longer on her ring finger. Everything feels so tiff, despite his best efforts, and Hannah lets herself float instead of fighting. Too long fighting and pretending and wishing. However he managed, Owen cleans her with a soft towel, with the light soap, the air smelling of lavender. And he is so careful. So careful, even, with the crack at the back of her skull, his tears dripping from the end of his nose and blurring his vision from the worse of the gruesome mess. It isn’t until he sets the bloody towel down on the cold metal slab that he lets his chin drop and he sobs over the body. It’s so cold already. But, struggling to breathe, he smeared his hands under his glasses and leans down to kiss her forehead, his mouth splitting around another sob that carves into his chest.

“It’s alright,” he croaks, his voice caught in his throat. “I love you. You rest.”

And, with a kiss, she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. And thank you for the beauty of these characters.


End file.
